


Untitled (facial!fic)

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started this one when I first got tagged for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/"><strong>salt_burn_porn</strong></a>, but then I wrote a better fic, so I went back this week and tidied this up.  Hah.  Facials!  Mediocre sex!  Love!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (facial!fic)

  
Dean's actually fairly fastidious for a man who regularly digs up graves. He doesn't like crap under his fingernails, and sometimes if they've just ganked something particularly disgusting, Sam can see him fidgeting in irritation as he gives up first shower to his little brother. Sometimes, if they've gone a while without even a truck-stop shower, or Dean's covered in monster goo and smells like a sewer, Sam will feign apathy and give up the right to hot water, just so he doesn't have to see that martyred look in Dean's eyes.

Which is why, when Sam is sitting astride Dean's hips, dick in hand, with Dean's fingers digging into the flesh of his ass and the phantom memory of Dean's tongue in his mouth, that when Dean says, "You could-- on my face, if you wanted--" Sam's first reaction is to come, out of sheer surprise.

"Or not," Dean mutters, and flips them over on the bed to bite at Sam's neck and rut into the groove of his hip until he spills over Sam's bare stomach, moaning Sam's name.

He doesn't mention it afterwards, so Sam keeps silent on the issue. But he can't shake the imagined picture of Dean: mouth half open, eyes closed, face pink and streaked with Sam's jizz. In his mind, Dean is kneeling on the floor, one hand down his pants-- or maybe he has his jeans open, and he's jerking off right there-- and he's looking up at Sam with dark eyes. Sam can just see himself fucking Dean's mouth, one hand on the back of Dean's head and the other on Dean's cheek, and then pulling out and shooting--

Needless to say, he doesn't get a lot else done, thinking like that.

But he doesn't get a chance, not really. This _thing_ between them is not exactly new, but it's only recently come to fruition. If Sam's honest with himself-- and he's not, not very often-- it was part of the reason he left in the first place. Growing up around Dean and knowing he was something (some _one_ ) Sam was not allowed to have _like that_ made for a worse adolescence than most people have, Sam imagines, and going to Stanford was a coping mechanism.

Going to Stanford was also an attempt to solve one or two other problems with his life, but he knows deep down, even though he said it wasn't about Dean, that it was kind of about Dean.

But then Dean came back, and Jess died, and all the shit went down. Dad's gone and now it's just them-- and Dean turned to him one afternoon in the car and said, "You remember how you used to have like, a crush on me or something?"

Sam snorted, because _a crush or something_ was putting it mildly and _used to have_ was inaccurate.

"Anyway," Dean said, and Sam realized he was tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, a clear sign that he was uncomfortable but determined. "I was thinking maybe you weren't wrong. About. Us. You know. You and me."

And that was that. And now Dean doesn't mind if Sam _comes_ on his _face_?

A week and a half later, they're sitting in the Public Library in some podunk town in Nebraska. They had to drive two towns over to even find a library, and it's more or less empty. Sam's got three books on local history open on the desk, and Dean's been sorting through four piles of newspapers, and they're coming up with a whole lot of nothing. No strange deaths. No unpleasant ends. Nothing to explain a whole street of empty houses that no one wants to buy because they're supposed to be haunted.

Dean stretches his arms over his head and arches his back, groaning, and then slumps back in his chair. Sam, getting a glance at the gap of skin between Dean's jacket and his jeans, smiles wanly and rubs at his forehead. He can feel a headache starting.

"Hey," Dean says, voice low to appease the librarian at the desk across the room. "C'mere."

"What," Sam says, and Dean takes his hand and slides it into his own lap. Sam can feel the heat of Dean's crotch against his palm, and the hardening ridge of Dean's dick down the left leg of his jeans. "Dean."

"This is going nowhere," Dean says, indicating the table full of papers while keeping his hand firmly over Sam's on his junk. "Let's get out of here."

"Maybe the houses are just fugly," Sam says, dropping the book and squeezing Dean's cock through his pants. Dean spreads his knees a little and leans back, smirking. Sam can feel his face heating up, and wonders vaguely if the librarian could see Dean's hard-on from where she is, if they just up and left.

"Case closed," Dean agrees. He pushes his hips up into Sam's hand briefly, and then dislodges him as he stands up, pulling his jacket back into place.

Dean returns the favor when they get in the car, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand in Sam's lap. Sam's sprawled across the passenger seat, legs wide, dick a throbbing weight under Dean's gently kneading fingers. He can feel himself leaking in his boxers, soaking through the cotton, and god-- maybe this is it. Maybe-- today. Now. Soon.

Sam's first out of the car, almost before Dean's done parking it, and he's stripping off his layers as he gets in the door. Dean's laughing behind him, crowding up close and sliding his hand into Sam's pants, warm, rough fingers finding the smooth, sensitive skin of his cock, slipping over the wet head. He opens Sam's belt with the other hand, unbuttons and unzips, and pushes Sam's jeans off his hips. Sam's cock juts out from his body, thick and red in Dean's hand, and he can't help fucking into the grip.

"Will you suck me?" he asks, breathless, watching the head of his cock poke out of Dean's fist.

Dean bites him on the back of the neck and says, "God yes." He turns Sam, urging him up against the door, and drops to his knees. Now he's eye-level with Sam's dick, which twitches and leaks in his hand at the implications. Dean grins and sticks out his tongue, sliding it slowly around the sensitive crown, licking up pre-come until his lips are sticky with it. Sam eases his hand into Dean's short hair. Dean opens his mouth and takes the head of Sam's cock in, all hot and wet and pink, and Sam plants his feet a little farther apart, lower, closer to Dean, closer to his mouth. His face.

He feels he's been hard for ages, just thinking about this. Dean reaches up and tucks his thumbs into the grooves of Sam's hips, pulling him deeper. Sam sinks in, hissing, Dean's sweet, gorgeous mouth tight and deliberate. Dean bobs his head, and Sam's fingers clench.

"Yeah," he whispers, "yeah. God, Dean. Can I-- this time, can I--" He can't even ask for it.

"Yeah," Dean says, pulling off wetly. He licks his lips. "Say when, baby."

"Unh," Sam says, thumbing Dean's mouth open again and pushing back in. Dean moans in approval and hollows his cheeks, and one hand drops to his lap. Sam can see his hand working at his crotch, kneading the bulge of his cock in his jeans, and he shudders. He's gonna come, like, in less than a minute, and Dean hasn't even been sucking him that long.

Just the _thought_ \--

"Dean," he says, and Dean sinks back on his knees.

"Already?" But he looks up, eyes dark, face upturned for Sam.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, too far gone to give a shit about being taunted. He lets go of Dean's head and wraps his fingers around his cock, jerking himself fast. He just-- Dean's _face_ , tough and gorgeous and _his_ \--

Pre-come wells over his fingers, and he rubs his thumb over and over the head of his cock, he's gonna just-- _fuck_ \--

Dean closes his eyes and opens his mouth, halfway, lips parted and teeth showing behind; sticks his tongue out, just the tip, and Sam comes, biting off a groan and spurting through his fingers. The first shot lands at the corner of Dean's mouth, the second leaves a streak from Dean's cheek to his eyebrow. Jizz spikes his eyelashes, slides down the slope of his nose, and Sam keeps coming, painting Dean's face with his spunk. It's _awesome._

Then it's over, and Sam stumbles a little, catching himself on the door. He pants, trying to catch his breath, and Dean sits very still on his heels, eyes still closed.

"Dean?"

"That was--" Dean says, and licks the corner of his mouth. "Not at all as sexy as I thought it was going to be."

Sam snorts, laughter bubbling out of him absurdly. He strips off his t-shirt and wipes Dean's face, carefully, trying not to get come in his eye. Dean scrunches his face, displeased, wincing, and Sam tries and fails not to laugh at him again.

"Oh fuck you," Dean grouses, wiping his face with the back of his hand when Sam is done. He cracks open one eye and Sam knows he's supposed to feel chastised. Instead he gets on his knees and licks Dean's face. He can taste himself on Dean's cheek, all salty and sticky, and Dean flinches away. "Gross, dude."

"You said."

"I know what I said, bitch. Now suck my dick." Sam unbuckles Dean's belt and unbuttons the top button of his stupid fucking button fly. "The things I do for you. Jesus Christ."

Sam's still laughing when Dean pushes him down on the bed and kneels on either side of his ribs.

\---


End file.
